Bones
by D0llieDaydream
Summary: And the memories keep flooding back, and he feels like he'll drown... oneshot, Daryan/Klavier


_I only just started getting back into writing, so sorry to anyone who thought I was dead ;D  
This is the first thing I've written in a while that I've been very satisfied with. But there's probably room for improvement, so any constructive criticism would be beautiful, baybeee.  
**This is a oneshot**. Bolded for emphasis. Srsly, someone told me to continue a oneshot once... No explicit boy love, my apologies. But it's DaryanxKlavier, coz we love it and implied Apollololololol/Klavy, I guess._

* * *

Klavier is aware that he should have been home an hour ago. He is aware that his (now turned off) phone will be filled with messages asking where the hell he is. He is aware that there might have been a time once when he might have gone home an hour early, and shrugged off any missing links, because really, they found themselves 90 percent of the time.

But that was then, and this is now, and he isn't about to let this case go. A case so mundane, a case that's really, all his, but he has to be sure. He has to make sure that his case is _solid_. He's unsure whether it's for his own peace of mind, or if it's to satisfy his inner perfectionist but either way, he's there.

Barely even awake. His mind keeps drifting. His thoughts wander. His gaze keeps shifting from his work to other objects scattered about his office. And the breeze from the open window plays with his hair, caresses his cheek, tells him of the outside world. Tells him that there are people, out living their lives. People on dates (maybe a night in would be better). People coming home from work (isn't it about time you got back?). People out with friends (when was the last time you really enjoyed someone's company? Without getting totally wasted, I mean). Doing _people_ things. And here _he_ is working away like some little machine.

Klavier sits back for a moment. He's starting to feel like he might need to go for a walk. His body really is starting to feel like a machine, and he really needs some oil in his joints. But something, somewhere, refuses his request and his gaze shifts back to the screen in front of him.

Then he hears it. Carried in on the wind. Tugging at that which he has tried to keep buried for a while now. It's music. But not _just_ music. It's a song he _recognises_. In fact, he should recognise it, he'd written it. He'd _created _it, and for some reason, at first, it seems foreign to him. Like he hasn't heard it in years. He hadn't, had he?

He knows this song. It's the first song he'd written together with Daryan. He feels a small tugging at his insides when he recalls his name, his face. There's a bigger tug, pulling downward through him as he recalls his talent. Recalls his excitement when he first heard him play. He remembers what it was like to be around him. He's remembering what it was like, back when he'd felt most alive.

And the memories keep flooding back, and he feels like he'll drown. He can feel the desk melt away beneath his fingers. The room around him is disappearing. He's feeling light-headed from the lack of oxygen. His heart's beating fast because he knows there will only be so much time until there's no more space, no air left, and he will drown and it will be over. And he can't plan an escape. He can't think to reach for the door, the window, to call for help. He can only think of kisses placed hot, and thick, all over his body. He can only recall demanding hands, and glances shared; glances that told secrets and lies. Glances that might have been the death of him. Glances that, even now, might _still_ be the death of him.

And he can only struggle, and remember, and he misses every second with every ounce of his being. Klavier is experiencing every last feeling, all over again in big crashing waves of emotion. He is trapped here, he's being crushed, and dragged away to places he doesn't know. But it's warm. He's so goddamn _warm_, but it's a ghost. It is only a shadow of the heat in his memories, and he _needs_ it. He's never needed so much, he feels. Oh, does he _need_ it; he could _kill_ for it.

He's shaking, and the door to his office door clicks open. Enter the touchy, scientific voice of reason, Detective Ema Skye. She takes him from the ocean, gives him oxygen, shoves a cup of coffee into his shaking hands, and sits in front of him with a firm concerned stare. Klavier takes deep breaths. It's time to think scientifically. It's time to _calm the fuck down_. The raw emotion falls from his body for a moment and he runs things through in his mind. Runs through it logically. In the correct order: from start to finish.

Five years ago, came the fall of Daryan Crescend, and though Klavier didn't know at the time, he was defeated himself. No, that's not the start of things. No, no, that's not even _close_ to the beginning of this story. The story begins in a small, messy apartment. The drinks are flowing, there's music, they're _so happy_. They're also drunk, not only on alcohol, but on themselves, on _each other_. And things get "out of hand" and it's fine. It's fine on that sofa, half clothed and half aware. Half aware of the implications of the position they're in. Half aware that there are lines, and they're crossing them. Half aware that they, really, don't care.

No, in fact, the story has a much more mundane start. But on that sofa, in that broken little apartment building, that was where the story _really_ started._ Their_ story.

But it made no sense to start there. Logic often disregards emotion. The logical start is the _downfall_ because that's the cause of the mess that Klavier is in at this moment.

It starts five years ago. And it ends a year ago yesterday. Klavier can hardly _tell_ that it ends there, because he _still_ sometimes catches himself thinking he ought to pay his best friend one last visit. And that's when he realises he's a month late. 3 months. 8 months late. A year. One day and one year late. And he still sometimes wonders _what _were_ his last thoughts? _And he _still_ wants them to be of him. And Ema knows this, and that's why she has yet to roll her eyes and dismiss this as another tantrum.

She knows that in between five years ago and now, that Klavier hasn't quite been right. Between the visits to his brother, his casual dismissal of the demise of his band and the dates that he made no effort to keep secret. She's seen the look of betrayal in Klavier's eyes and she's seen the way his fingers drift over chords longingly and she's seen the tell-tale glance over the shoulder and that look of 'what if?'. She lets them go. She doesn't _quite_ despise that Klavier is happy, even if she can't claim to be especially fond of him. He's a big boy, and doesn't need anyone, especially _her_ to look after him. Plus, she trusts Apollo to do the job, should it need doing (even if he has _awful_ taste in men).

It's just when he's a fucking mess, as he is now, she can't _quite_ allow herself to leave him there. "It was a year yesterday, right?" She asks. She's been talking _at_ him for a while now, and he just keeps nodding absent mindedly at nothing. He looks up and surveys her. This irks her, does this guy think he was the _only_ one to ever work with Daryan? Probably, she thinks, in his world there is _only_ him.

And then he shrugs. He's stopped shaking. He takes a meaningful sip of his coffee. Like a full-stop. It's over now. Your colleague saw you cry, she gave you a talk, and now, you can feel okay. She's not so convinced. Her hand is stuffed into her pocket, and she's staring at him with this look of indecision on her face. Klavier watches her and he wonders why she's here, when she can go home now. She is not a part of _his_ world. She looks wrong here, especially with a look other than disgust on her face.

Her fingers trace over the paper in her pocket, and she's thinking. She's pissed that Daryan would bother to write the note in her pocket because he should know better than her. Klavier Gavin is _so _self-absorbed. And still, he scribbled that note, handed it to her and told her that if he ever needed it, she knew what to do. She'd snorted and asked "Does he ever need anyone other than himself?" and that had made Daryan laugh. A hollow laugh, granted, but there was a warmth in that smile. Like he found something worth admiring in that. It would have broke her heart if she was a little easier to move.

She pulls out the scrap of paper and hands it to Klavier, who is now grinning that stupid 'winning smile' her way. "I don't need this any more." She mutters and makes her exit.

Klavier's staring at the note, and it feels so delicate. Like she's had it in her pocket for so long. He takes care in unfolding it and when he's got it out flat on his desk, he instantly recognises the writing. It's sloppy and it's thoughtful, all at the same time. And parts of it have been worn away where the creases were in the paper. But the message there is still readable. It's as clear as day and it stares at him. _I love the bones of you, that I will never escape._

Klavier recognises this. He knows he's heard this before. He remembers hearing it in some song, in Daryan's car most prominently. But that's another set of memories entirely, and right now he's exhausted. He takes as much care folding the note back up and he's at a loss as to where to put it. For now, he slips it into his back pocket. He can worry about what to do with it when he next finds it.

The room falls into darkness as he flicks the light switch off, putting to bed old memories of something stronger, something better than this.


End file.
